


Allow Us to Explain

by RabidRambler



Series: The Story of Us [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blood and Gore, F/F, F/M, Gen, Gore, M/M, Multi, NSFW
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-02-05 07:25:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1810150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RabidRambler/pseuds/RabidRambler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thanks to those of you who helped in the making of this chapter</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. The Moons Were Mocking Me and So Was He

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to those of you who helped in the making of this chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should caution readers that there are descriptions of gore. I'll add it to the tags too.

       Your name is Kahzix Kastro, and, in order to properly tell your leg of the story you have to start about four perigrees ago. Four perigrees was the first time your palmhusk went off bearing urgent news. Four perigrees ago was the time of the first murder. It was a rather pleasant evening to start. The sky was clear and starry and a soft breeze was blowing. It was the perfect night, quite frankly...until you got the call. One minute you're standing on the balcony of your hive, the next you're standing on the beach over the body of a dead troll. The sea laps at your shoes and the steadily fading stream of violet blood. The cadaver at your feet looks like it's been mauled by something large and very angry; what's left of the kid is more of a pile of broken bones, ruptured organs, and ribbons of flesh than a body, really. You turn away from the gruesome scene and head towards your hive."Forward me the details, will ya?" You call behind you, hearing various affirmative answers as you pace away. You expect this case will be open and close; just a lusus gone wild. There's really no need to get your partner involved in such a trivial matter; they only assigned you to this case because you live nearby the crime scene and you had nothing else you were working on at the time. You're surely not the best investigator on the force, but you were available and convenient, so they called you. It's not hard being a legislacerator, it's just so damn inconvenient sometimes. You pull out your palmhusk and contact your favorite clown cultist.

\-- rabidRambler [RR] started trolling breakneckAnarchy [BA] --

[RR]: Hey asshole, guess what

[RR]: We got a case

[RR]: It's a murder. A pretty grueosme one too.

[RR]: Probably just a rogue lusus attack, tho

[RR]: os don't get your bells in a jangle

[BA]: Now wait tsuj a tnemom and explain to me what the gnivolreve shit you are gnituops at me

[RR]: Are my words not clear enough for you, clown, or do I have to take that sentence one word at a time?

[RR]: We

[RR]: Got

[RR]: A

[BA]: Brother

[RR]: Case

[BA]: Don't need to klat to me like I'm dim, brother. Shit's just downright luftcepsersid

[RR]: Whatever. We got a case, come to my hive os we can talk about this

\-- rabidRambler [RR] ceased trolling breakneckAnarchy [BA] --

       You toss your palmhusk into your sylladex and shove your paws into your pockets. The clear night seems to mock you as you stroll back to your hive. You know that the worker bees, as you call them, will not have the information you need to you for at least half an hour, and it will take longer than that for Saezar to get to you. That gives you just enough time to check up on one of your favorite people. You wait until you reach your hive to log on to your computer version of Trollian, which allows you to watch your friend as you converse. 

\-- rabidRambler [RR] started trolling sacredNomad [SN] --

[RR]: Hey there, kid

[SN]: Hello Kaz. How are you today?

[RR]: Good, good. Just go assigned to a case

[SN]: Oh? That ↓s good. ↑ am glad. What ↓s the prem↓se?

[RR]: Murder, probably. A jogger found a pile of remains that was fairly fresh. It's all gorey and stuff, I'll spare you the details. I think it was a rogue lusus, but you never know. They're having me investigate, os it shouldn't take long to close.

[SN]: How very ↓nterest↓ng. ↑s Saezar help↓ng you on th↓s one?

[RR]: Yeah, i'm required to brief him everytime I catch a case. 

[SN]: Ah, ↑ see. ↑ suppose you're at your h↓ve r↓ght now?

[RR]: Yes

[SN]: Could ↑ come see you?

       You waver in your response. You want to see her, but if she comes here now there may be a confrontation with Saezar, in fact, there will definitely be a confrontation with Saezar and you're not up for that kind of situation.

[RR]: Now's probably not the best time. Saezar will be coming over, I don't want you to get hurt :(

[SN]: Oh, yes. Okay, that would make sense

[RR]: osrry

[SN]: ↑t ↓s okay

[RR]: I have to go for now, some of the case files just got here

[SN]: Okay, have fun on your case!

[RR]: Haha, thanks. Talk to you later

[SN]: L↓kew↓se 

       You sigh. You feel really bad about turning her down again, but you are merely interested in her well being. You turn to your inbox, gnawing on your lower lip as you open the folder containing all of your case files. You open the folder containing the crime scene photos and flip through file after file of graphic gore. You're used to it by now, and it's nothing compared to seeing it in person. 

       "Whoa...sick stuff you got here. What did that? Rogue lusus?" You can't help the girlish scream that escapes your lips and you slam your elbow back into the intruder's nose. Blood sprays all over your shirt, desk, keyboard, et cetera, and your intruder howls in pain and stumbles back as you whip around and face the man who you should charge with breaking and entering. In fact it would be a real kick to the globes for him if you did, but you imagine as you sit there and snarl at him that you might miss his illegal ass if he ever went away. 

       "The fuck you doing here, asshole?"

       "I could be asking you the same question."

       "No you couldn't, I live here."

       "Or do you?"

       "Aw shut up Lorren, and tell me why you're here." Lorren stands and brushes imaginary dust off of his jeans, giving him reason to neaten his carefully rolled cuffs and tug the nonexistant creases from his collar. He saunters over and runs one of his hands through your hair and grabs the base of your horn, giving it a little yank. You growl at him and reach up to smack him like the fool he is, but he catches your hand and suddenly it's numb, like you're been stung by something and it's disorienting for it to be gone. Your other arm is pinned between the chair and the desk and is running through the various stages of falling asleep as Lorren takes a seat right there on your lap, legs spread, the chair creaking beneath the weight of you both. His eyes burn at you through his shades and he smirks. 

       "Maybe I just wanted your company."

       "I should have arrested you sweeps ago."

       "Nah, think of all the fun times you would have missed out on."

       "You call this fun?"

       "Wouldn't you?" He drops your numb hand and slides claws along your jawline, undoubtably raising fine, teal lines that had a bad habit of sticking around for longer than they are welcomed. You bite hard on his fingers that come too close to your mouth and spit blood all over his pretensious, lusus white button up. His mouth curls in an angry smirk, sort of a signature look for him. The thing about Lorren is, although you are kismeses through and through, he's your dirty little secret. No one can know he exists, much less that he had ties to you, even more so a quadrant bond. He uses this against you, and his appearance now is no more coincidence than the moons rising in the evening.

        "Lorren, you contemptable bastard, I have work to do."

        "Oh, I know. Tons of work to do. You're always busy, and that stresses you out. Stress makes you irratable, and that makes you weak." He wrenches your head backwards by the one horn he's got a grip on and runs that hot, wet tongue of his up your neck and bites your jaw repeatedly making his way to your mouth. You pant a little against your will and latch on to his lips as they connect with yours, his heretical blood pouring into your mouth like running water. He takes his free hand and runs it up under your shirt only to drag it, claws bared, back down again, opening warm, streaming wounds on the entirety of your abdomen. Your own hands are dead to the world, you couldn't move them if your life counted on it, and that suits him just fine. It suits you too; there's nothing like a bit of bondage play to set you off. He fondles your grubscars, probably one of your more sensitive spots, digging his claws in around the edges where the hard, smooth plating fuses with softer skin; you moan, arching your back in pain and need. He grins into your maw and grinds against you teasingly; you know you're going to break the chair, but it doesn't matter, you'll have to burn it either way, there's no remedy for the stains that come with this activity. 

         Suddenly you're skittering across the floor on your bony ass, arms still useless flesh bags protruding from your sides, and you glare up at Lorren as he takes his time getting over to you, removing his ruined shirt and his not yet ruined jeans. You take a moment to take in his thin nose gone crooked from your earlier bashing; his fine, silvery skin that ripples over his obnoxiously muscled torso like silk; and those two bright, burning discs set with determination and hate black as pitch. Despite being older and higher on the hemocaste than him, his horns tower over than yours in mismatched harmony; the right one looking like it couldn't decide which way to grow so it chose not to chose and when both ways; the left like a thick stake bent over about half way up. He's down to just his boxers as he kneels down overtop of you and tears your shirt off of your bleeding carcass for you, dragging his fangs down your abdomen and making you arch, aiding him in his attempt at showing off as he unbottons your trousers with his teeth but doesnt rip them to shreds. He shucks them off in one clean move and licks you, waist to chin, long and slow, plastering his hot, lowblooded body across yours. You wrap your legs around his waiste in a desperate attempt to have some control of him, but he just chuckles darkly and thrusts upward further, latching onto your aural shell, sending bright shots of pain racing through you. Ungodly sounds escape your gasping maw as he ravishes your jaw, your neck, your shoulder. You reach up and dig your claws into his shoulders, the pain suddenly gifting you with the use of your arms. You growl and flip the both of you over, tearing off his boxers in the process. His bulge winds its way up the leg of your boxers and you grab it and pull it away from it's target, eliciting a high, keening whine from your partner. He grabs both of your crooked horns and you flip over again; you catch the sound of bones crunching when you land on your spine. He releases one horn to tear off your boxers, leaving you both in nothing but your wriggling suits. Your bulges twine together, yours dwarfing his almost embarassingly. He may have a bigger physique, but you make up for it in the equipment deparment. You cackle maniacally at this point and heave him over and straddle him, forcing your bulge into his nook. He moans and tears holes in your back, making you howl. You lay forward and latch your fangs onto one of his grubscars, feeling the deep rumble of his snarl radiate down from his chest. His bulge thrashes under you indignantly, and you move upward, tearing at his nipple, sucking on his neck, chewing on his mouth. You kiss, his mouth stupidly tender on yours until you rake your claws down his perfect biceps, at which he caterwalls in pain and flips you over yet again. You roll your hips into his and he reciprocates the action, except that you're still inside of him, and you can feel your climax coming on. He beats you to it, however, vibrant cum spewing all over you and him. Seconds later you add your color to his and you're left panting on your sullied floor. You and he never really cared to bother with a bucket; usually these episodes come on so fast you don't have time to prepare. One of these days you'll have to fill a bucket, seeing as you have no matesprit, although you doubt the drone will take it. You lay there in each other's arms, panting, bleeding, and ridiculously content. It was about time this happened, Lorren knows this is better stress relief than any other form of relaxation, and he waits until your good and tense, to the point where you're almost shaking with the overwhelming stress and anxiety. He does you a favor, really; you would have offed yourself sweeps ago if not for him, most certainly. You become vaguely aware of gentle rumblings of a purr that has struck up in both of you, and he's running a sharpened claw around in circles on your bare chest. It's just as you close your eyes that the worst of sounds rings through your hive. Three solid knocks echo through the room, and the purring fades into a soft growl coming only from Lorren. He's angry as shit, his one requirement is cuddles after sex, and your visitor is interupting that; you, however, are scared shitless. You know who's at the door, you were, in fact, expecting him, invited him, even. Leave it to Lorren to pick the worst of times. The traveler at the door knocks again.

           "Brother, if you don't open this door, I'm a-coming in on my own." You sit bolt upright and scan your hive franctically. You can't have Saezar in here, no way, no how. The entire room is a royal fucking mess, and smells horrid at that, and it would be rude and completely discusting to invite someone in with your hive in such a state. That, however, is the least of your problems. The main problem is not the boy curled possesively around you, but the fact that the entire room is covered in lime. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The walk from the crime scene to Kahzix's hive is about 15 minutes long, if that helps with time placement


	2. As Your Career Flashes Before Your Oculars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, I had that deadly disease called writers block

       There's a split second between the second knock and your flight to action. You throw Lorren across the room and hiss at him to disappear. He gives you a shit-eating grin, picks up his clothes, and disappears with a mocking salute. You can tell he's a little sour about cuddles cut short but there's nothing you can do. You stumble over to the door and crack it open just a little, greeting your guest with the barest view of your eyes and your olfactory bulb.   
       "Heeeey there Saezar, buddy, can you give me, like, two seconds? My hive is a wreck and I need just a second to clean." His responding expression is nothing if not tired of your bullshit.  
       "Brother, you know you needn't clean for me. You have seen the perpetuous wreck my hive is, so mess is not a thing for me. Let me in."  
       "I cannot! I have a tad of cleaning to do, just give me a couple of minutes, please."  
       "You have had half an hour to clean. Why didn't you?" This question is followed by the most cliche suspectful narrowing of the oculars, and you gigglesnort a little and shut the door without another word. You run frantically around your hive in a mad panic, picking up your various articles of clothing and tossing them in the incinerator before scrambling upstairs for some fresh coverings. Your bloodpusher is slamming against your ribcage as you throw on your favorite jeans and a plain black t-shirt with your symbol emblazed on the front in teal. When you come back downstairs, however, Saezar is standing in your living room, bug-eyed and staring at a  particularly large splotch of lime blood, probably from when you broke his nose, based on the location in relation to the desk. Saezar looks up at you silently.  
       "Wanna explain this?"  
       "Not particularly..." He takes a surveying look around the room and you can see the gears in his pan turning.  
       "You were attacked." He says plainly and looks back to you. It takes every inch of you not to burst out laughing like the great baffoon you are and just nod solemnly, if not a bit conspicuously, and weave the greatest lie you can imagine.  
       "Yeah, this asshole wandered up into my hive like he fucking owned the place and decided to rid it off its current inhabitants. I was sitting right there at my desk, and if it hadn't been for the reflection on my screen and the fact that he slammed the door open when he came in, he probably would have wasted me. Thankfully the son of a bitch was weak as hell compared to me and was no trouble at all."  
      "So where's the cadaver, brother?" You have this feeling like your digestive sack has consumed your bloodpusher and dragged your wordtwitcher and your think sponge down with it.  
      "He...got away...uh...ran out the back when you interupted us." He eyes you for a moment."I suppose you've changed clothes then?"  
      "Yes, of course. Now, shall we proceed to my office upstairs?" He shrugs.

       "Sure." No one ever has nor will claim that Saezar Lillty was the brightest color in the box of wax drawing sticks, and you thank every deity you can name for this fact as you follow him up your spiraling staircase to the second floor. Your office is set up like a war room: The walls are lined with monitors doing very sophisticated monitor things; there are literally no windows, and, in the center of the room is a rather large table usually covered in large holomaps of various places. Right now a map of Alternia is splayed out in pin sharp detail; tiny multi-colored lights dot the map in a variety of places. You switch the map over to one of the sector you're located in and set a marker for the crime scene. Saezar studies the map while you bring up the rest of the details on one of the monitors.

       "So, the remains were found at 1900 hours this evening by a passing jogger. The medical examiterminator determined the remains belonged to a violet blooded male about eight sweeps in age. Due to the nature of the remains, there were no fingerprints to help us identify him at the time, so the lab's running dental as we speak.  Hopefully they'll come up with someone, hopefully not someone we know. Preliminary analysis of the remains denotes a possible, more a probable, lusus attack, although we are not ruling anything out yet. I am expecting this to be closed very quickly. I might not even need your...services." At that he chuckles and a chill slides down your back like someone has dumped ice down your spinal cord. Saezar is good for interrogations; he's loose with the voodoos and liberal with his strifekind: a ten foot long spear with a wide, flat head that he polishes and sharpens in his spare time. He's done something wierd to it that has caused it to have barb-like protrusions that stick back away from the tip of the spear, giving Saezar a nasty reputation. Unfotunately, when comparing his strifekind to yours, the large bowie knife you keep at your side almost every minute in the field seems to pale in comparison. Of course some would argue that you can't compare a knifekind to a spearkind, but when it comes right down to it, people are more like to be impressed by the larger of the two. Your partner drums his claws on the table top and looks up at you.

     "Was there any DNA left at the scene?"

     "Some. But they haven't gotten any results yet. It's likely that, if it does match to someone, they'll be whoever was on the beach before hand." Just then your palmhusk chimes. 

\-- corpseWhisperer [CW] started trolling rabidRambler [RR] --

[CW]: Hey there, is my fav↻rite legislacerat↻r ready for s↻me news?

[RR]: Is it good news, darling dearest, or bad news?

[CW]: Yes❣❣

[RR]: _-_

[RR]: Ms. Mortus, I don't have time for your shenanigans. Is it good or bad?

[CW]: B↻th numbbulge❣❣

[CW]: N↻w, y↻u and y↻ur wack↻ cl↻wn need t↻ get d↻wn here and let me divulge t↻ y↻u these m↻st imp↻rtant parcels of kn↻wledge

\-- rabidRambler [RR] sighs --

[RR]: We'll be there oson, okay?

[CW]: Perfect❣❣ See y↻u s↻↻n❣❣

\-- corpseWhisperer [CW] ceased trolling rabidRambler [RR] --

  
       When you look up, Saezar's already heading downstairs, his sloping spine and great looping horns retreating from view with an easy lope. The woman you are going to see has quadrant ties with Saezar, although you can never pin down exactly what it is they have. You go into town and take the bullet train to the morgue downtown. Callah Mortus, M.E., is waiting for the both of you when you arrive. Inside, the remains are laid out on a steel table, only the bits of flesh have been removed and what organs had remained post mortem had been transfered to plexiglass jars with labeled lids. The cleaned bones are spread out on the table, but there are several missing, mostly minor bones and some cartilage, but there was one important one missing: the head. The thin cartilage spines of fins are splayed out in delicate fans around an empty circle where the skull should have been sitting. You try not to think about it too much, but you can't help but imagine this sicko tearing the aural fins off the sides of this poor kids head. Your digestive sack lurches and you shudder. Callah comes over and perches her thin arms on your shoulder while standing on the tips of her toes because she can't reach otherwise. Callah Mortus is tiny spit of a yellowblood with stubby bent-over horns a lot like your own. It's hard to imagine this tiny girl, wth her tweetbeast like bones, could wield a huge double headed battle axe and still be a formidable enemy. However, although she rarely has a need to stife, you have seen it happen, and it was terrifying to see someone so docile become so bellicose. 

      "Hey there dearest darling!" She chimes and slips off of your shoulder, coming around to lean up against the table. She twiddles her fingers at Saezar, who returns the gesture with a solemn wave. "Welcome to the dungeon, gentlemen, allow me to intoduce our victim: Oakaus Aborea, age nine, violetblood. When I examined the remains on the scene, I figured that I wouldn't be able to determine time of death because the liver, along most of the other organs, was out in the open. Usually the body keeps the liver warm, but because there wasn't a body to do that, the time of death measurement was a little sketchy. However, I took the temperature anyway, and estimated, based on that and the state of decomposition, that he died about twenty four hours earlier. Now, everyone thought that this was a lusus mauling, but I found shreds of skin that may have some DNA on them. There were hairs and a little bit of blood and even a chip of a claw. It's a stretch, but I sent the stuff to the forensics lab to be identified, so you'll have to pay a visit to Dr. Mornin." You groan; it's not that you don't like the docterrorist, it's just hard to communicate with her. 

       "Is that all, Callah?"

       "Yepyepyep! Could I borrow your subjugglator for a moment while you go see Versas?" You chew your lip, mulling it over for a moment.

       "Cal, you know my sign language is rusty..."

       "Well, then you're just going to have to get over it, because I'm taking him and will return him to you later." You grumble, but there's no arguing with this one, so you turn and go.

       "Careful with that one, Lillty."

       "I got it brother." You leave the room and take the stairs up to the forensics lab, where local docterrorist Versas Mornin spends most of her time. Versas is a sweet, mild mannered oliveblood who wouldn't raise a claw to anyone, exept maybe Saezar, but she has her reasons for that. You figure that it was better to leave Saezar with Callah than to bring him along, except that you can't translate her sign language to save your life. See, Versas is mute, but not by any natural means. Saezar and Versas used to be matesprits, before you all went off to get trained for your selected proffessions; when they came back, they found each other again, but Saezar had changed, and one night he flew into a murderous rage, over what you don't know, and tore out her tongue. She was lucky to get away alive, and now she works here with Callah and, unfortunately, speaks sign language very, very quickly. You never knew Versas before ascension, but you imagine that she used to a very lively person, because, although she still is quite lively, losing one's power of speech tends to suck a lot of life out of people. You walk into the forensics lab to find Versas glued to a microscope. You  smirk and flop over backward with a dramatic whump .

        "Oh, Docterrorist! You gotta help me! Something's gone _horribly wrong_! I-I just don't feel _right_ , something just hurts _so much_!!" She hasn't turned to look at you, but you can hear her snickering like mad. She's a sucker for ham acts, and man can you ham. You dissolve into giggles and roll over on your side, grinning up at her like a nut; she turns on her rotating sitpillar and smiles down at you. "Hi kiddo." She leans down and examines your sorry corpse with feigned urgency.

        _I deduce that your pain originates from injuries sustained in a rigourous hatepailing, and I recommend you lay off for about three nights._ She signs at you, and you feel your face heat with an embarrassed blush. _How is Lorren, anyway? Did you tear him up like he did you?_  Versas is the only person on Alternia who knows you have a kismesis, she's the only one who knows he exists, since he isnt registered as a citizen for obvious reasons. She only knows because she walked in on the both of you one day by accident. 

       "Lorren's wellbeing is none of my business." You sniff and stand, brushing off your shirt. "Now, whatcha got for me?" She pouts a little and rolls over to her computer, bringing up what looks to be a toxicology assesment, then turns to you.

        _Callah sent up both a sample of our vic's blood and some tiny samples of another party's blood, among other things. She said there may have been DNA on the shreds of skin, but I couldn't find any, and I couldn't pull any from the claw fragment or the hairs she sent down. What I could find out was that the hairs did not belong to a lusus, but to another troll, and the blood, if it belongs to the same person as the hairs, is fushia. There's just one problem: when I ran the DNA through the Adult Identification Database and the Minors Identification Database, ruling out anyone currently offworld for obvious reasons, and no one came up. No one. So your killer is an unregistered tyrian of unknown age._ You sigh and run a hand through you hair, rubbing absentmindedly at the tip of one of your horns.

        "Anything else?"

          _He was drugged._

         "Huh?"

          _I found traces of ketamine. It was enough to dull his senses, but not to put him out; this dosage would have had you flat on your ass, though, and a warmer color than I would have perished, almost instantly in some cases. Our killer probably drugged the vic in hopes to attain a preimminent upperhand in the battle, so they've probably got self-esteem issues._

        "Can you trace the ketamine back to a supplier or the buyer?"

          _No, I've already tried. It didn't relate back to any of the legal suppliers' batches, so whoever this is, they bought it on the black market._ You mull that over for a second. You know Saezar has sources that lurk in the dusty back-alleys of shadows, maybe they can tell you something. 

        "Anything else?"

        _Nope, that's it. I'll let you know if I find anything else. Happy hunting, Legislacerator!_

        "Thanks Versas." You leave the lab and encounter a rather chewed up looking Saezar buttoning his vest and checking his cuffs. Saezar is one of the best dressed subjugglators you've ever had the pleasure of meeting. He wears a tuxedo, pretty much, save the tie and the jacket. He keeps his wild mane of hair tied back in a tight braid that starts at his frontpan. On some occasions he wears ornaments on his two large loops of horns; thin black cuffs of hammered metal are his favorite, and sometimes, for special occasions, he wears caps with little tear drops on the ends where his horns come to vicious points. A large tattoo peaks out through the thin sleeves of his dress shirt in a ghostly geometric pattern. You eye him silently while you wait for the elevator as he continues to preen himself until he feels sufficiently decent. He catches you staring and raises a silent eyebrow, and you shrug and look away without a word. 

         "It's complicated," He mutters.

         "When isn't it, brother?" You sigh. As you step onto the elevator, you get the strangest feeling that this case is going to get a lot more complicated than Saezar's quadrants, and fast. If only you had known then what you knew now....


	3. You're a Disgrace and Should be Ashamed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long!  
> Also, a note on Kahzix's quirk. He's got it on randomizer, so those would be typos are intentional, sorry if they're bothersome

       A perigree passed with no new leads. In that time, however, the bodies continued to pile up. In thirty nights' time there had been ten murders, all with the same M.O.: male adolescent purpleblood, torn to shreds and left on a beach somewhere, always drugged, always a missing skull. Every single body was littered with trace evidence, but not a single bit of it was viable for identification. None of Saezar's connections knew anything about anything, even when faced with monitary persuasion. The names just keep piling up, the faces; you sit in your office every night, sometimes into the day, staring at the faces, trying to figure this psychopath out, but there is nothing. You become increasingly depressed, which affects your work. Another two weeks passes; Lorren has come to visit you twice, but both times you brush him off, either from business or from depression. As he leaves the second time you hear him say "Damn, man, do you ever need a moirail..." but you shred the comment and the tiny inner part of you that has resorted to giving no fucks tosses it into the air like confetti and dances around in it like he's gone shithive maggots. It is on the last night of the first perigree that your thinkpan pulls itself out of the fog and screams at you to fucking look at the evidence. It is then you find the pattern that sends you spiraling into a heap of research: upon reviewing the victim profiles you find that all of the victims are about the same age: about eight or nine sweeps old. Knowing that your perpetraitor is a tyrian, you research events that happened eight to nine sweeps ago dealing with tyrians. Nothing. Absolutely nothing of any kind of signifigance shows up; you widen your search. You draw your time restriction out farther and narrow your criterion to important political affairs. Immediately you're flooded with results,and you spend hour after hour searching for something. You even have the results ordered by dates. Out of 413,612 results, the very last one strikes you as odd. 65 sweeps ago there was a sectorial election; the two participants in the race were both tyrian males. The younger of the two was only nine sweeps old, the elder, thirty two. The former official had died of sudden cardiac arrest, and these two were the only eligible trolls in the sector. The data shows in a preliminary poll that most of the sector thought the elder of the two had the election already in his pocket; but when the election came, the younger won the election by ten votes. Unfortunately all of the names have been  _oh so conveniently_   blacked out, but it's something! You follow up by looking into whether or not that particular sector has had an election since, only to find some interesting tabloid reports. 

**PRINCE KALLAN: NO LONGER AN ELLIGABLE BLACK BATCHELOR?**

**Last week paparazzi caught Kallan covered in bruises and bite marks. Is it possible that** **the always sought after prince has finally filled one of his quadrants? What's even better: the suspected target of his pitch loathings is none of than Dr. Nallah Morisi, who runs an emergency clinic in the sector. But don't you jealous suitors start an angry mob just yet; rumor has it that the fifteen sweep old docterrorist has unnatural strength, for a tealblood. But how long will it last? Sources say Kallan has had trouble in the past......**

      The article continued with no extra helpful information. Now, at least, you have a name. It's possible that whoever is behind this could be targeting Prince Kallan. You bring up trollian.

\-- rabidRambler [RR] began trolling breakneckAnarchy [BA]--

[RR]: Hey partner 'o mine

[RR]: I have finally coaught a break. I have borken this thng wide fucking opeb.

[RR]: You andas me? We're going on a grubbing raod trip, that's what we're doing.

[RR]: Are you in or what?

[RR]: ...

[RR]: Yo

[RR]: you even there?

[RR]: ugh

[RR]: did Callah fuckin kill you?

[RR]: Okay, yoreu not answering me

[RR]: I'm comigne down there

\-- rabidRambler [RR] ceased trolling breakneckAnarchy [BA]--

       You get up from your chair and grab your coat from the table as you pass it. As you head downstairs, you catch your reflection in the glassfront of a hanging portrate and realize how long it's been since you gave a flying flip about how you looked. You couldn't go out looking like this; you needed to shower first, or at least brush your hair, which had grown, unchecked and unbrushed for a month, and change your shirt. So you change course, heading across the hall to your respite block instead. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

        It is much worse than you expected.

        Much, much worse.

        Your clothes are rumpled and stained and covered in a dozen sloppy meals; your teeth have yellowed and grown a tad scraggly from lack of maintainence, and it's a surprise you haven't punctured your lower lip by now; your hair is a matted, tangled mess that hangs just above your shoulders, all of the teal has gone from it, there would be no styling it like this; and your right horn has developed a slight flat spot near the tip from being worried over and over without constraint. You look like the living embodiment of someone who has literally gone to hell and back. You pull out your palmhusk.

\-- rabidRambler [RR] began trolling breakneckAnarchy [BA]--

[RR]: I know i said i was comign to get ou

[RR]: but i am in noshape to be leaving me hive right now

[RR]: i'll be there when i can

\-- rabidRambler [RR] ceased trolling breakneckAnarchy [BA]--

       You toss your palm husk onto a pile of bean-filled fabric sacks you keep in the corner of your block and it stirrs up moats of dust. You give it a look and strip the clothes from your sorry carcass, tossing all of them into the incinerator. They are not worth the time, energy, or resources that it would take to salvage them. After that it takes you all of twelve seconds to hit the ablution trap because now that you are naked, you are cold and feeling embarassingly dirty. It is disgraceful to have let yourself go this long without a proper ablution, hell, without an ablution, period. It feels strange to have water rushing over your skin, but you relish the feeling and inhail deeply the thick, humid air. Your mind rushes; you feel refreshed, you haven't even started washing yet, it's amazing. You close your eyes for a moment and take another deep breath. You gag; the air suddenly thickly of saline and sweat and well worn leather. You open your eyes; you are not in the ablution trap anymore. You're wrapped in a thick, course cloth, like canvas, which is lashed to you with a cut of rope. You feel like a slave, or you imagine some slaves might feel like this. A breeze blows and you shiver, taking in your surroundings. You're on a ship, in front of you stands a man, clad in thick leather boots, dark pants, a weathered brown jacket, and a three pointed hat. His horns rise from his headgear in a steep slope that is hauntingly familiar. He is leaning against the mast, standing on a barrel, staring out at sea with a wistful gaze. He doesn't seem to notice you; someone calls from behind you, and he turns. 

       "On it, cap'n." He responds, his accent thick and drawled. This man is the spitting image of someone who lives carelessly and free of stress. He passes you, and you turn, catching a glimpse of a huge teal symbol emblazoned on the back of his coat.

 

It's yours...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have this headcanon that troll teeth are like rodent teeth; they grow and can be dangerous if left unchecked


	4. Taking Things in Stride and The Gut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short Chapter, sorry

       You find yourself sitting on the floor of your ablution trap, hunched over, staring at the tiles made extra shiny by pouring water and trickling blood. What even was that just now? A hallucination? A vision? Of what? The future? No, impossible; you could never turn to piracy, never. So what was that then? You take a deep breath and try and bring your heart rate back down to normal levels. Whatever it was, it's over now, you need to move on. You stand and rinse, cutting off the now cold stream and proceeding to towel off. You don your favorite outift in your wardrobifier, comb your hair, and file and brush your teeth. You smile at yourself in the reflecting plane, throwing on your teal shades. You feel like a new troll, you look like one too. You slide down the banister instead of taking the stairs to the first floor, jogging off your momentum into the nutritionblock where you grab a snackbar and head for your coat closet, picking out your favorite coat, which, you note, looks hautingly like that of the man you saw in your vision. You file that note away in the "Things we're not thinking about" folder in your thinksponge and grab your walking cane, an ostentacious thing that you bought upon returning home after training in hopes of having grand parties to attend. There have been no parties, and thus, no reason for the basted thing, although you warrent that now would be an okay time to take it out. 

       You stroll from your hive, clad in your finest, feeling like a million caegars, and walk to the mass transportation tube station, where you board the tube into the city. Saezar, despite being a highblood, lives in a hivestem; it's a very nice hivestem, the rent is higher than you could ever afford, but he could certainly afford better if he so chose. You get some looks from the flocks of passengers surrounding you. One of them stands out: a navyblooded woman about your age, dressed in a pair of black slacks and a navy tunic. What you can only assume is her symbol is tattooed onto her arm, spiraling out from her elbow in a three pronged loop. She smiles at you and you return it with a small nod and a curt smile. You had never been good with socializing, it was just the way you were brought up. 

      When the tube reaches your stop you exit quickly among the masses and head for street level. You breath deep and relish the sights and sounds of the busy bustling little city. It isn't until half way to your partner's hive that you realize the same navyblood from the transportation tube has been following you. You wade into a thick crowd in the middle of an open square and weave back and forth until you find an alley to duck into. You draw your specibus and wait; just as you suspected, she comes flying around the corner with the look of a preditor who's misplaced their carefully stalked quarry. You pin her to the wall, pressing the tip of your knife into her gut as she wriggles like a stuck grub. 

       "Want to explain why you're following me?"

       "Let me go! I could have you culled for this you know!"

      "I will release you when you tell me why you are following me!" She growls and throws you off of her, drawing from her sylladex what seemed to be a grapling hook of sorts. She aims it at you and fires, you dodge at the last second and are immediately thankful that you do. The contraption hits the opposite wall with such force that the bricks shatter and throw off dust, and you watch as the head opens, forcing it from the newly created crevice and onto the ground with a metalic clunk. She snarls at you and snaps her wrist back, triggering some sort of retraction function, causing the grapling hook to reload itself to be aimed at you once again. You hold up your hands and put your knife away. You can't fight this girl, you already can see that you'll lose miserably and then this case will never be solved.

       "WAIT, waitwait, okay. STOP, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, alright? Just hear me out for a moment, okay?" She faulters and growls uncertainly, and you take that moment to explain yourself.

     "Okay, look, I am Legislacerator Kastro, I work for the region's law enforcement department. I'm working on a really high profile case right now, and I am just headed over to my partner's hive to discuss the break I just came across. I have a right to be paranoid, can you blame me for wanting to not be followed? I am sorry I pinned you to the wall, but you were following me without even introducing yourself on the transportation tube." She lowers her weapon but doesn't put it away so you keep your hands in the air. 

       "Working on something important, huh? Maybe you should have thought about that before you engaged me, _Legislacerator Kastro_." And with that she raises her weapon and fires.


	5. Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is so short.

       Your name is Saezar Lillty, and you are quite done with this lowblood right about now. Of course, you imagine she's about done with you too, but you can't quite tell over all the yelling that's going on. Unfortunately she tends to get a little loud when you come over, but you can't really blame her when you dominate her in her favorite game. At the same time, it isn't your fault she has an obsession with these kinds of games, as you have found that they can be annoying at first until you find yourself hooked, and then there's no turning back. It's infectious. Then again, it isn't often you can find something you two can agree on, so it's not all so bad when she invites you over to play Alliance of Conquerers. It has become quite the source of entertainment in the perigree your partner has neglected to contact you. Not only that, but you have managed to make some new "friends". Now you sit at a desk directly opposite of your partner, clicking and mashing keys like mad as you try to defeat your enemy, who just happens to be the girl sitting across from you.

        "I'VE GOT YOU NOW YOU MASSIVE WEENIE! THERE IS NO ESCAPE!" Callah cries as she unleashes her characters strongest move upon you as your character tries helplessly to flee. Your character cries out and the vibrant map goes gray as the announcer declares your defeat. Callah squeals with delight and bounces in her seat a little; you watch the other players in the match complain and ask the opposing team to report you for "feeding" Callah, and all you can do is chuckle at their idiocy. She doesn't know it, but you have spent the entire game purposefully running into battle and immediately exhausting all of your attacks and trying to flee. You had won the last eight matches against her and you felt maybe you owed her at least one win. While you wait for your character to regenerate you check your palmhusk for new messages.

        There were more than you expected...

\-- rabidRambler [RR] began trolling breakneckAnarchy [BA] --

[RR]: Hey partner 'o mine

[RR]: I have finally coaught a break. I have borken this thng wide fucking opeb.

[RR]: You andas me? We're going on a grubbing raod trip, that's what we're doing.

[RR]: Are you in or what?

[RR]: ...

[RR]: Yo

[RR]: you even there?

[RR]: ugh

[RR]: did Callah fuckin kill you?

[RR]: Okay, yoreu not answering me

[RR]: I'm comigne down there

\-- rabidRambler [RR] ceased trolling breakneckAnarchy [BA]-- _2 hours ago_

A lot more...

\-- rabidRambler [RR] began trolling breakneckAnarchy [BA]--

[RR]: I know i said i was comign to get ou

[RR]: but i am in noshape to be leaving me hive right now

[RR]: i'll be there when i can

\-- rabidRambler [RR] ceased trolling breakneckAnarchy [BA]-- _2 hours ago_

        You groan; this wasn't going to go well. You weren't even home right now, you'd been at Callah's hive for hours now. What's worse is that you know it doesn't take two hours to get to your hive from his; he should have gotten there by now and discovered that you weren't there. The fact that that nosy bastard hadn't contacted you yet was unnerving. You open a new chat thread.

\-- breakneckAnarchy [BA] began trolling rabidRambler [RR]--

[BA]: Hey, brother, just got your segassem

[BA]: I'm not home right now, dude

[BA]: Have you left yet?

[BA]: Hello?

[RR]: HELLO

[RR]: WHO I2 THI2?

[RR]: WHO 4RE YOU?

[BA]: Um, I'm sorry, but I should be gniksa you the same noitseuq

[BA]: Because this is ylsuoivbo not Kahzix

[RR]: OH, NO

[RR]: SORRY TO H4VE TO TELL YOU THI2 DE4R, 6UT LEGI2L4CER4TOR K4STRO I2 DE4D

[RR]: I H4VE KILLED HIM

[RR]: H4VE 4 GOOD NIGHT!! ;>

\-- rabidRambler [RR] has blocked breakneckAnarchy [BA] --

\-- rabidRambler [RR] has ceased trolling breakneckAnarchy [BA] --

       You stare at your palmhusk for a moment, trying not to sputter in total disbelief. Kahzix? Dead? 

       That fucking idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering what Alliance of Conquerers is like, it's League of Legends. The exact same thing.


	6. Subjugglator To The Rescue!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saezar comes to Kahzix's rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, I got busy and then writers block hit and yeah. Sorry it's so short

       You rush from Callah's hive with no explaination whatsoever, not only because it was an emergency, but also because you owed this lowblood no explaination for your actions. You're in too much of a hurry to take the mass lifting compartment, so you vault your way down the stairs a floor at a time. Part of you wonders why you're even bothering with this, after all you two never really got to like each other, there was always just a tense peace that stood between you. Your feet hit the pavement running as you clear the door anyway, rushing towards the town square where the last messages originated. There's an usual number of people crowded around a narrow alleyway, and you rustle your way through them to find Kahzix lying on the ground with a huge hole in his shoulder, staring at the blueblood on the other end of the weapon. You draw your spear and shout.

       "OY, STEP AWAY FROM MY PARTNER BEFORE I TEAR YOU TO FUCKING SHREDS." They both look at you with intolerable amounts of surprise.

     "Saezar?" Kahzix looks way too confused for your mental health. He sits up as much as he can, not looking the least bit concerned with the grappling hook protruding from his shoulder. "What're you doing here?"

       "Coming to avenge your not dead ass. What the fuck man? This bitch said she killed you. How are you still alive?"

       "Would you rather I wasn't?"

       "At this point? Yeah, maybe. What happened?"

      "She aimed and fired, but looked away before it hit, so she felt and heard it connect but didn't see where, so she sent that message without looking to make sure she had killed me. My palmhusk fell out of my pocket when I dodged the first attack. The only reason she hasn't killed me yet is because the hook is stuck. We can't get it out." All the while the woman is standing there, flushed bright blue all the way down her neck in embarrassment. 

      "How do you usually deal with this problem?" You ask.

      "Well, usually they're dead and I just tear it out of them, but I just..."

      "You just what?" You growl. Kahzix sighs.

      "She can't do it. She's flushed for me rather suddenly, and she can't bear the thought of causing me pain. I might lose the use of my arm if she does."

      "Might I remind you that you are lying on the ground bleeding profusely? The loss of your arm is the least of your worries." At that he looks down with surprise.

      "Oh, fancy that." He remarks and proceeds to pass out."Such a fucking pansy..." You mutter, putting your spear away. You throw your partner over your shoulder and carry him out of the alleyway, unintentionally dragging his perspective matesprit behind you as her strifekind is still stuck in his shoulder. You lug him to the nearest mediclinic, which is farther out than it probably should be, kicking the door in to open it because you're too lazy to bother the manuvering it would have taken to let your free hand get there first. Unfortunately this causes a major problem because the door both slides and is made of glass. So you lumber into the clinic with a wounded tealblood, a tagalong navyblood, a broken door, and a leg full of glass. The receptionist doesn't quite know what to make of all of it and sits bewildered behind her desk clutching her clipboard. A troll pokes her head out of a door directly to the left of the reception desk. 

      "Angela, what in God's name was that...oh my God."

    "You the docterrorist around here?" All she can do is sputter, a bright teal flush coloring her confusion. "Okay good, cuz this kid here needs immediate surgery to remove this stupidass graplinghook from his shoulder before he bleeds to death if he hasn't already." She goes rigid, all professional logic and cold calculation.

     "Bring him this way." She guides you to a room that smells of antiseptic and cold. You note the goosebumps on your arms as you enter the room and just how chilly it was to you. You lay Kahzix down on the operation table and the doctor appears at your side with a pair of cable cutters. You step away and there's an alarming SNAPWHIRRRRR as the cable breaks and retreats inside the weapon.

     "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to wait outside."

     "But--"

    "He need's immediate reconstructive surgery. I cannot have civilians wandering around my operating room while I try to save the use of his arm. So kindly step outside before I put you there. NAZTRI, LORALI, DIETRO, I NEED YOU, EMERGENCY SURGERY!" She shouts and the navyblood herds you out just as three other docterrorists come racing down the hall. They slam the door behind them and you're left standing numbly in the corridor. A fourth troll comes pattering up to you. She's a tiny spit of a oliveblood with wide, trusting eyes and a soft expression. 

    "My name is Halora. Come this way please, your leg needs to be tended to." The navyblood urges you forward and you end up in a little examination room, clinging to the edge of the table while Halora pulls shards of glass from your leg, dabbing away the blood as it oozes from your wounds.

    "I'll pay for the door." You utter and she looks up at you for a moment, a tad puzzled. 

    "Oh, uh, thank you, but I think that's something you should talk to my boss about." 

    "Uh, right, right, yeah." She finishes and bandages you up. "You should wait in the lobby. Your partner's going to be fine. Nallah's the best surgeonarcisist in the region." She guides you out and sits you in a chair, giving your shoulder a gentle, almost consitory pap before heading down the hall and disappearing into a room. Halora had a strange accent, something high eastern* that lilted and trilled in strange places. She was absolutely beautiful; you vowed right then and there to come back here and court her for red. Fuck that yellowblood, you prefer her for black anyhow.   There was just one problem: what if Halora didn't come to fancy you the way you did her?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halora has an Irish accent


End file.
